


The Blunt Force Trauma

by Davechicken



Series: The Pilot and his Broken Saber [3]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 05:09:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6270829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trying to acclimatise to life with the Resistance, Kylo teaches them a thing or two about fighting the First Order. In detail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blunt Force Trauma

Kylo still isn’t sure what he did to deserve this. And - worse still - he’s not sure it’s even _real._ Only a handful of weeks ago, he was still Kylo, Master of the Knights of Ren. He was still the Supreme Leader’s trusted right hand, the Enforcer to his Emperor. The Vader to his Palpatine. 

Now he’s standing at the side of a holo-table, where a group of pilots have gathered. Poe claims they are _tame_ , but Kylo knows pilots are anything _but_.

“Okay,” says Black Leader, Poe Dameron, he of the BB-unit, also known as the arch-betrayer. There is an undertone of concern in his voice, which only those who really _know_ him would be able to tell was there. “So, Kylo here is gonna give you some idea into the mentality of the First Order. From someone who’s experienced it first hand.”  


There’s only six of them, and Kylo looks around at them and tries not to think about the last six people he helped to train. Inside his boots, his toes curl awkwardly, and he clears his throat. 

“First… does… anyone have any questions?” he asks. It might be traditional for questions to come _after_ a lecture, but he needs to understand their level of comprehension, and also what they hope to gain from this. And it delays any input from him for a fraction of a moment longer, and any delay is a good delay, right now.  


Some glances are exchanged, and then one - a broad guy with facial hair that the Order would never have allowed - actually _raises his hand_. Kylo stares in horror. This isn’t **school**. Do they think he’s some form of professor? _Are they going to ask permission to use the ‘fresher?_

“Uh… yes?”  


“Snap,” the man offers. “Me. I mean. I’m Snap.”  


“Snap,” Kylo repeats, as if that somehow helps. “You don’t have to raise your hand. You can just… talk.”  


“Okay.”   


Kylo catches a shared look between Snap and Poe. He strongly suspects these pilots have been thoroughly primed to make this painless for him. In a way, it’s insulting that Poe thinks he needs it; he used to teach his Knights, after all. But on the other hand… it’s also kind of sweet, to think he cares enough to do this. And that people trust him enough to come to an ex-Dark-Jedi’s awkward first class, just because he asks them to.

“What are we _actually_ up against? I don’t mean fleet numbers, or troop numbers. I mean… what… what _people_. What are they like? How can we beat them?”  


It’s a strange question, and he thinks about it for a moment. “You’re… up against three different problems, in all honesty. The one you know most is the Order proper. There’s a rank structure similar to the Empire, although they now take children and warp them, instead of clones or recruits. They are very much order-orientated. I suspect like you, but with less of a moral core. That is the grand majority of the enemy’s numbers. They are trained and drilled into obedience, and any non-compliance is wiped from them. Some are fanatics, the rest are simply broken into place.”

He waits for that to sink in, making sure not to overwhelm them. 

“Then there are the Knights. Six. Force-users, too. They - they were my students. My soldiers. They were - they _are_ \- dedicated. Driven. They believe in what they are doing, and it makes them dangerous. Your best bet against them is distance, or surface-to-air missiles. Or carpet-bombing.” Sad, but true.   


The third is the hardest to speak of. “The leader of them all… the _Supreme_ Leader, as he likes to be called, is an even more powerful Force-user: Snoke. He… is strong in the Dark Side. He manipulates people. For his own gain. He is the mastermind behind all this, with Hux - General Hux - as his military presence, he… is formidable. And capable of terrible, terrible things.”

Terrible.

One of the other pilots half-lifts an arm, then smiles at being acknowledged.

“Where did you fit in, Sir?”  


Sir. He doesn’t deserve the honorific, he’s no longer in charge of anything. It tastes wrong, it feels weird. “Kylo,” he corrects her. “Please,” when he worries he’s been too harsh. “I was the Master of the Knights. I was the Supreme Leader’s… Enforcer.”

“How do we fight J– uh, Force-sensitives?” one of the others asks.  


“With great difficulty,” he concedes. “And superior firepower. You don’t want to risk going too light against them. They _can_ control your mind, your body, your weapons. You need to treat them as priority targets, and throw everything you can at them.”  


“How far away can they control your minds?” Snap asks.  


A valid question. Before long, Kylo’s answering wave after wave of them, and whatever he had planned to tell them when he turned up is lost in favour of real, useful information sharing. 

***

“So. I think that went really well,” says Poe, as they head into the mess hall. 

It’s still early in the mealtime period, and Kylo would likely prefer to wait a bit longer. However, he _is_ hungry, and Poe is **also** going for food now, so… he decides he can manage the crowds. Or he can try to, anyway.  


“Do you think I’m actually helping?”  


“Kylo… you do realise that most of the people here have only heard legends about Force-users? If I didn’t know your family before… before… I’d have no idea what was true or not. And even _then_ I didn’t know anything about the Dark Side of the Force.”

“I suppose.” Kylo examines the options, and decides he wants the pasta. He sees Poe stretching to get some cheese, and he leans over to fetch it for him.   


“Thanks.”  


“No problem.”  


It is even more surreal, now. He wonders if people are looking at him. Then he wonders if everyone even knows who he is? Of course _some_ do. And some see the family resemblance, or–

An alarm sounds, and suddenly everyone is running. Trays and plates and cups clatter around them, and Kylo’s first response is _what have I done_? He ducks into himself, and glances at Poe.

Poe, who is suddenly almost as pale-skinned as he is. Or maybe it’s just the contrast making his normally golden skin ghostly. His eyes are haunted, and Kylo’s stomach sinks even further.

“The First Order,” Poe whispers. “They’re here.”  


***

Kylo follows Poe out of the mess hall, and then follows him towards… oh.

 _Oh_.

Poe starts to holler commands to the other pilots, who are all already leaping into their craft and gearing them up. There’s no enemy ships in visible range, yet, but it will only be a matter of time. The proximity alert doesn’t allow for much notice, and unless they’ve built another Starkiller in the past month (impossible) it means there’s a capital ship and starfighters - TIEs - in orbit.

Poe’s BB unit is already locked in his X-Wing. 

Poe. The Black Leader. The pilot. The _best pilot in the Resistance_.

Kylo watches as if through an upright lake as everything is distant and muffled. Poe has to fly, to try to fight them. That’s what pilots _do_. They fly ships, and they fight, and they do things that are useful. Kylo is standing on the edge of the duracrete, utterly useless. Poe is going to war, and he might well never come back. 

The worst part is that he doesn’t even realise it, not until he turns and catches Kylo’s eyes by accident. Then it all seems to crash in on him, and the shorter man strides back to puff up right before his chest.

“Kylo, I have to.”  


“I know.”  


He does. He knows. If Poe doesn’t fight, then more people will die. And perhaps Poe will die in the saving of them, but if he survived and others didn’t, his pilot would never live with the guilt and shame. Kylo could. He could live with others dying so Poe was safe, and that means he’s still a bad man.

“I’m coming back to you,” the pilot tells him.  


Poe grabs his shirt, but Kylo doesn’t want the kiss that’s offered. He doesn’t, and he turns his face so instead lips graze his cheek. It’s not that he doesn’t want a kiss, it’s that he doesn’t want this one - _this one_ \- to potentially be their last.

“Go,” Kylo tells him. “Go.”  


“Keep your mother safe.”  


That… that he can do.

***

As TIEs screech and swoop their way overhead, Kylo uses his long legs to sprint towards the main building. That’s most likely where his mother is, and where he needs to be. She will have guards of her own, no doubt. Guards, and a blaster in her right hand. Leia Organa never stopped being Leia Organa. Not once. He loves and hates her for that.

There’s screaming of people being hurt, but he can’t stop to help. He can’t, because you have to protect your figurehead. Your leader, your General. He runs until his breathing hurts his chest and tastes strangely of salt, and pushes through thronging crowds until he finds the small hub of people gathered around the holo-table.

“Ben,” she says.  


 _Kylo_ , he thinks. “I need to get you safe.”

No one asks if he knew this was coming, though he sees one or two of them eye him with suspicion. A few take paces closer to her, and it makes the hair on the back of his neck rise. 

“I’m where I need to be,” she demurs.  


“They’ve come to _kill you_ , can’t you tell?”  


“They’ve been trying to kill me since before you were born,” is her mild reply.   


“And don’t you think it’s convenient that they find out our location when you are here?” someone asks. Someone he doesn’t know. He’s pretty sure no one he _knows_ would dare, but then… a sinking feeling in his gut reminds him that he has no right to demand anyone’s trust.  


“Where are Rey and Luke?” Kylo asks, instead. His voice is chilly, devoid of emotion. Clipped.   


His mother looks more deeply at him. “Training, off-world.”  


“So there’s no Force-sensitives, other than you?”  


Her eyes narrow at him, and then widen. Yes. There are. She’s sensed them.

Kylo snaps: “Keep her **safe** ,” and bolts back out of the command core.

***

Outside, overhead, green and red bolts sing death in every direction. The majority of people are now in crafts, or in bunkers, or preparing to evacuate. They will need to evacuate. Their base is blown, no matter what. 

Men and women arm several barricades, huddled down with their ranged weaponry and inferior personal armour. The sky is cut through, now, with the black dagger of a Star Destroyer, and they need to get going sooner rather than later.

He’s sure Leia Organa will already be spearheading that retreat. His mother is nothing if not efficient.

But there’s one thing they haven’t factored in, or planned for. Not to his knowledge, anyway. And that’s another _Upsilon_ -class shuttle, like his own. Like his _old_  one. 

The kind the First Order reserve for the Knights of Ren.

He’d seen it on their screens, in the war room. Seen the signature, and known it could only be anot– could only be a Force-sensitive. A Dark Jedi. A **Knight**. He wonders which of them it is, but in truth it doesn’t matter. He had told the pilots only this morning how dangerous they were, and the echoes of those words taste like ash, now.

And he wonders if they were right. If he _was_ the trap that the Admiral (for once, not Ackbar) clearly thought he was. He knows he hasn’t deliberately led the Order here, but what if Snoke messed with his mind one final time? What if he was a honeypot? What if his so-called redemption was all one ploy, orchestrated by a master of manipulation beyond any comprehension?

Or what if Snoke simply still feels him, through the Force, even though Kylo can no longer feel **it**? 

He hopes it’s someone else, he does. If he were a sleeper agent, surely he’d have slaughtered them all in their beds by now? And if Snoke was in his mind… would he know? How could he ever know? As a child, it had been beyond his comprehension. As an adult, it had been overt. Now… now he might stab his own heart out without a blink, and be convinced it was his own desire to do so. 

And that is beyond terrifying.

Kylo stands in the doorway to the command bunker, watching black-splattered white cannon-fodder pour out. Behind them, striding onto the field of battle, the youngest of the Knights: Ithon. Unmistakeable in his swagger, too-proud and too-sure. Kylo had tried to beat that out of him many a time, and failed abysmally.

Now, he just needs to keep him away from his mother, and the head of the Resistance. Kylo hopes the other is still as rusty on the physical side as he always was, and that he doesn’t try to use his influencing skills on him. Kylo doesn’t know how well he can resist, without the Force to ground himself. 

Ithon sees him. He assumes he sees him. His masked face turns towards Kylo’s own, bare and open.

“Back to your old tricks, huh, boss?”   


He’s seen him. 

Kylo doesn’t know how you answer that. Still, he has to try. “If you mean: back to the side that doesn’t believe in mass-slaughter and racist propaganda, then yes.”

Ithon’s laugh grates. It always has. He laughs in that way that sounds more like he’s laughing at _you_ , than at anything you could ever have said. “I meant more the - what did you call them? ‘Morally constipated’? But if the boot fits, fuck it.”

“Wear it.”  


“Nah. Fucking’s more fun. And speaking of… what’s wrong with a little mass-slaughter?”   


This exchange is getting them nowhere, but it’s keeping Ithon in place. Keeping him in place, and keeping him from advancing on his mother. He only hopes the command structure is smart enough to escape whilst he holds the Dark Jedi back. “Where would you like me to begin?”  


“…well. Back on the _Finalizer_ , for starters.”  


“I’m afraid that won’t be happening.”   


The younger man shrugs. “Figures. Still: boss asked me to try, so I tried. You want to stay Resistance scum, you go right ahead. No one will care. Then again, this lot will be dead, soon, so… kind of stops _them_ caring.”

“Ithon, you don’t need to do this.”  


“Need? No. Want? _Maker, yes_.”  


The other Force-sensitive’s red blade arcs out, humming with power. It’s more stable than his own, but then, so would a knife duct-taped to a flashlight be. Ithon’s hilt is garish and loud, just like he is. Kylo doesn’t want to fight him, but there’s no one else around who can.

“Ithon… please. Listen to me. The First Order has filled your mind with lies and hatred. You don’t need to kill. You don’t _need_ to be who you are, right now. You can still do the right thing. You know that killing innocents is wrong, and–”  


“Innocents?” 

That word is clearly a bad - or good - choice. Suddenly, everything that isn’t bolted down or rooted into the earth flies at him, and Kylo has to put his hands up to protect his face.  


“There’s no such thing as _innocents_ ,” Ithon spits, venom dripping from his words like the finest, melting icicles. “They kill just as many. Don’t you remember telling us?”  


Kylo does. He does remember telling them. He remembers - even - on some level - _believing_ it. And maybe - in a way - he still **does**. The Resistance kills the First Order. The First Order kills the Resistance. Death upon Death upon Death. “But they don’t do it from hate.”

“No? They just put another **NAME** on their hate, and call it _justice_ , and _fairness_ and _Resistance_ when it’s all the same!” Ithon runs at him, now, and Kylo doesn’t need the Force to know he’s incensed beyond measure.   


He ignites his own saber, bringing it up against the one crashing down. Instinct moves his body, like it did in the last fight. Instinct and a desire to _survive_. “Listen to yourself! Hate! Who cares? Who cares about hate? Why are you following someone who doesn’t care if you live or die?”

Ithon pirouettes, and Kylo struggles to keep up. Ithon has always been one for showmanship, and Kylo would normally floor him straight off. But now - now he has to struggle just to keep blows from hitting him. He _taught_ the man, but that was another lifetime ago. That was when he could still rely on the Force to augment his senses, his reflexes, his strength and his stamina. Now, he’s just the same as any stormtrooper, or pilot. He’s a nobody, in the Force. 

“Maybe because it’s not about **him** , but about what _I want_.” Ithon nearly takes Kylo’s hand off, with that. “Maybe it’s because of all those things that made you Fall. Don’t you remember? Emotion? Passion? _Love_?”

Kylo staggers, and tries to put distance between them. Even the word - one word - _love_ \- and he can’t help but wonder if Poe is even still alive. Good pilot or not, you only have to crash **once** for it to be the last time. You only need to fail _one_ shot, or mis-time one flip, and…

“Do you think they’d have you back if you weren’t impotent?” Ithon taunts. “You said it yourself: _an attached Jedi is a danger, and a crisis to be averted_.”  


And Kylo is no longer capable of being a Jedi. He’s this nothing-man, this… spent blaster. All his potential mis-fired in one dramatic, poignant and stupid explosion. But with the Force, if he still had it… he’d be as emotional and volatile as he is, now. It’s just that without it, he is less of a danger to the world. He can be a wreck of a man as a ‘normal’ person, can have his temper and his insecurities, but if he were still at one with the Force…

He’d be kicked straight off the base all over again. 

His saber-hand wavers, and Ithon uses that to launch another assault. Kylo barely breaks his impetus, catching the slash with his cross-guard. He remembers why he Fell. He remembers it wasn’t all anger and a lust for power. He remembers it was a fear of losing this part of him, of destroying his very core to make himself into their cold, keen blade. He remembers the terror in the night, when rage and love and fear and pride and disgust made his sheets damp with sweat. He remembers not being able to tell anyone why his eyes were sunken with exhaustion, or why he no longer asked questions.

Not aloud, anyway.

“I can still love,” he whispers, as the double-kiss of two red plasma arcs come closer to his face.  


“Only because you’re _dead_.”  


Kylo nearly sinks to one knee under the pressure, under the sudden thick fog in his mind. He can tell with distant horror that Ithon is trying to flood through him, and without the Force to resist it, it’s a sheer battle of wills.

“I’m not dead,” he says, hoarsely, even though part of him clearly is. The part of him that knows the Force, the part of him that - that - is everything his _family_ and his **Leader** ever wanted of him.   


There’s a smell of burning as the other’s blade hones in on his hair, and his shoulders shake as he pushes back. Digs in deep, and finds that **rage**. That **anger** at being _used_ , that **disgust** at being _hurt_. That **fear** of being _inadequate_. That **love** that simply _was_. Kylo **SCREAMS** and sends him flying with sheer, animal strength. His foot comes up and smacks into Ithon’s solar plexus, staggering the man backwards.

## “I AM NOT DEAD.” 

He is not dead, and if he has to go down now, he’ll go down fighting with every last breath he can still breathe. Force or no, broken or not, he’s spent his whole life battling between the Dark and the Light, between the pull to do what’s _right_ , and to do what is **powerful and compelling**. 

Kylo is going to fight. He is going to fight, no matter if he’s beaten so far down that all he can do is bite and scratch and claw. Fighting is all he’s ever known, and he’ll be damned if he surrenders now. 

He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t. But he wants to live a lie even less. 

More debris flies at him, and he slices through it with his saber, panting and aching. The ships in the air are fewer, further between, but all he knows is the man in his sights. He told them how dangerous a Knight could be, and he knows no one but him could ever really face him, toe to toe.

It’s why he came out here, prepared to die. Not wanting to, but prepared to. And he realises, as their eyes meet, that this is where they differ. Kylo: ripped away from his very self, still standing his ground over principle and family. Ithon: who kills for the sport of it, and who has no moral stance whatsoever other than his own, selfish needs.

Ithon readies himself for another attack, which is when the familiar sound of engines cuts the air in half. They both glance up, and Kylo realises what’s happening, first. He cuts his blade out, and dashes into the nearest doorway, curling up into a ball. The pilot - _Poe_ \- lights the whole area up with weaponsfire, and Kylo knows this is his only chance to escape.

He can’t kill Ithon, not with just a saber. Poe has the greatest chance of all, and he must have bought enough time by now for the Resistance to flee. He runs into the command bunker, and finds his mother still at the holo-table.

“We have to leave. **Now** ,” he tells her, a hand on her elbow.   


She looks pained, but nods. “Almost everyone is clear.”

Of course she’d want to make sure of that. It runs in the family, after all.

***

He sits out of the way, on the Resistance’s capital ship. The one his mother evacuated on, when they scrambled from the base. He sits, and watches the hum of hyperspace go by.

Poe is out there. He knows, because he checked. He fussed at the crew, making them double-check call-signs that registered in when they did the final jump towards the beta-site. Poe is out there, in his X-Wing. Poe is alive. He can’t see him, or feel him through the Force, but he’s alive.

Kylo’s eyes close, as he feels for the vibration of the ship’s engine. He knows starcraft inside and out. He knows more about the engineering side of things than most. He can feel when a manifold is out of alignment, or when the impulse engines need a thorough scrubbing. Even without the Force, he realises he can still tell.

It must come from his father’s side. 

In his hands, his unlit hilt rolls back and forth. He hadn’t been able to abandon it, even after he - after… and then…

“Ben.” A pause. “Kylo.”   


He looks up, and sees his mother lingering in the doorway, asking permission to approach. He nods, just slightly, at the second name. 

Leia Organa moves in, and sits on the other side of the viewport. She looks so much older, every day. He wonders how many of those lines are due to him, and if she’d seem so old if he’d been around to watch them form under the river-flow of time. She’s shorter, too. Or he’s taller. Or both.

“I am sorry that some of my people still doubt you. For what it’s worth, after today…”  


“Those who really doubt, still will,” he reassures her. “But perhaps less of the undecideds.”  


He could press his nose to the transparisteel, like he used to, as a kid. Wrap his lips around it and puff hot against cold, and watch as the gradual _levelling out_ returned things to how they always were. Except for the smudge of his nose. That always stayed. 

“It was very brave of you to face down that Knight. I’m sorry you were put into that position.”  


“Someone had to.”  


“Yes. But it was unfair to–”  


“Why? Because I used to train him? Mother… no one else has…” and he lifts his unignited hilt. “No one else could do it, not really. It was difficult, but necessary.”  


“That’s what I always told myself about my work.” She slides a hand over her knee, and he hears the sound of skin on fabric. Everything is amplified. Everything is deafening. “I should have been there for you.”

“You were.”  


“Not enough.”  


“Perhaps. But Snoke would have found me, all the same.” Kylo sighs. “I was weak.”  


“You were my _boy_. You– **Ben** …”  


“Ben is gone,” he tells her, sadly. “Whenever anyone calls me that, it feels like they erase everything I did, after. I was him. I’m not any more. He was a boy, but Kylo Ren is the man.” He can see she’s struggling, so he takes pity on her. “Kylo can still be your son. If you want him to be.”  


“You never stopped being that, no matter what name you go by.”   


A little nod, acknowledging that as true. “I… I need to ask you something.”

“Anything, Kylo.”  


“Poe.” Just his name, and he lifts his eyes to hers with great difficulty. “I– would…”  


“Ask me,” she whispers.  


“I didn’t want to stop feeling things,” he admits, as a dam gives way inside all over again. “I wanted to still… I didn’t… Jedi weren’t supposed to–”  


Then arms are all around him, and he finds himself in that familiar smell, that old grip that used to comfort him in the night. His mother. He was so afraid, when they sent him away. So very, very afraid. 

The words keep coming, though it’s far from pretty, or polished.

“I– felt… too much and I… didn’t want to stop and I…”  


A hand through his hair, and his tears stain her clothing darker with his passing- but everlong - sorrow. 

“You didn’t have to stop feeling,” she says, against his head. “You didn’t ever have to stop feeling. Do you think I stopped loving you? Or your father? Do you think Luke stopped loving us? Or you?”  


“I don’t know! It - it was all such a _mess_ , and he kept telling me I was **broken** and **wrong** , and I– Mom, I was _afraid_.”  


He knots his hands in her clothes, as the age-old horror works its way out again, crawling out from that dark place in his chest and wrapping - snarling and flinching - around the outside world. He isn’t sure if it will ever go, because it rises up easier, each time. But then it’s been threatening to spill over for years, and now he’s back with - with _them_ \- he finally lets it out. _Properly_. 

Lets it out, instead of an anger in its stead. Lets it cry, lets _himself_ cry. Lets it hurt.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, and kisses his hair. “You don’t have to give up on your heart, Kylo. I’m so sorry we ever let you believe it was true.”  


And the thought of all those wasted years has him crying even more. He sobs, from deep in his stomach. Sobs, and feels the arms around him, keeping him safe. Warm, warm and safe. Loved. Held. Cared for.

**Safe.**

Eventually, the pain fades down. It isn’t gone - not for good - but for now. 

Maybe it won’t ever be gone for good. But at least now someone will hold him until the worst is over, each time. And that is an agony of its own.

***

When they finally arrive, Kylo barely takes two steps from the ship before there’s a flash of orange intent headed straight for him. He blinks in surprise as Poe launches himself bodily at him, arms grappling, and a tousled-headed mop pushing urgently under his chin.

“Kylo. Oh, Maker, you’re really okay.”  


So he wasn’t the only one frantically checking, Kylo thinks with relief; a little, faltering laugh breaking nervously past his lips. 

“I’m okay,” he tells him. “I’m okay.”  


He has his arms around the pilot, and is breathing in the smell of his hair. It feels like weeks since they last touched, even though it’s barely been hours. He breathes him in and in and in, and they gently rock from side to side, wound up in one another. It becomes harder to tell where one ends and the other begins, and Kylo loves that sensation so much. Poe always used to make him feel better with his hugs. 

“I was so worried.”  


“Probably as worried as I was,” Kylo points out, wryly. “And you saved me. You know, don’t you? You saved me. Ithon was going to kill me.”  


“Like hell he was.” 

Poe growls it so possessively that it sends a shiver down Kylo’s spine.   


“I got my mother away safely. I think we suffered minimal losses, and–”  


Kylo startles as Poe grabs the back of his head and forces him down for a kiss. His hands are still around his pilot, and this kiss… it’s rough, and ready, and so full of love that his heart wants to burst. 

Poe. Beautiful, glorious, loving Poe. Poe who Kylo had - who _Ben_ \- had always admired from the very ground he walked upon, up to those eyes of his. Those eyes that were so kind, and giving, and genuine, and honest. So bright, and so sure of his own Light. Poe, who was the kind of hero they sang songs about, and who you could never hate, because he was too good.

Or so Kylo was sure, and he would run anyone who disagreed with him through repeatedly with a glowing sword. 

The kiss breaks, and hands stay on the back of his neck, and Poe is smiling against his mouth. A bump of nose to nose, and Kylo finds he doesn’t even mind if anyone sees their display of affection.

Poe is safe. Poe saved him. And Kylo… he was allowed to love him, all along. He just never knew it would be okay. 

“I’m not letting you out of my sight for the rest of the day,” Poe tells him. “Unless you tell me you want to go.”  


“Never.” Not ever, not ever. Hands on his waist, and Kylo sighs, soul-deep and content. He doesn’t want to ever be apart from Poe, not again. Not _really_.  


“And don’t you _dare_ tell me you are nothing. You faced down a kriffing _Knight_ without the Force. What were you thinking?” Poe’s tone is equally horrified and proud, and Kylo enjoys that, too.   


“I’ll be honest with you, I was thinking: how stupid am I? But also: someone has to do it, and it has to be me.” And now, on reflection, Kylo realises that was pretty damn foolishly brave. The kind of brave he always wanted to be, if… not how he imagined it. A broken man fighting off someone much more powerful than himself, in order to save his family, and the Resistance. It could easily have gone very, very badly.   


“Damn straight you’re not nothing,” Poe says, admiringly. “I told you, you were still _incredible._ Maybe now you’ll believe me. Now… come on. I have ten million things to do, but you’re staying with me for all of them, okay? And I’m going to tell everyone how you saved the General’s life.”  


“I did n–”  


Poe stops the rejection with another kiss. This one ends with teeth on his lip, and hands sliding dangerously close to his ass, making him open with a moan, and letting Poe lick his objection deeper inside. Kylo decides he might have to object more often. 


End file.
